Fire in the Night (2 page)

The horses! Oh, please!

The floor above them broke—the hissing, tearing sound a knell of doom.

“Priscilla! No!”

Sarah dashed after her sister, whose sole purpose was to reach her riding horse, Dutch. Grabbing her by the shoulders, Sarah screamed and pointed to the break in the floorboards, the sparks raining down on the dry hay stacked by the stone wall. Priscilla wrenched her body from Sarah’s grasp, flung herself along the corridor, and wedged beside the horse, desperately searching for the chain fastened to his halter.

It was then that the dry hay burst into flames, the sparks turning into blazing flares. One landed on Dutch’s back. He screamed and pawed the air, but he remained tethered to his death by the chain. Sarah fought to contain Priscilla, who was crying out and babbling like a mad person, her need to save her beloved horse dispelling all common sense and thoughts of her own safety.

Choking on the thick, black smoke, Sarah tripped and pitched headlong toward the concrete corridor, the eerie flames consuming the rolling, tumbling smoke above them. As wailing sirens broke through the night, she thought this surely must be the hell written about in the Bible.

Clutching Priscilla, her knees torn from falling, Sarah crawled out of the barn to the stoop beside the cow stable and fell sideways onto the dew-laden grass. The night hissed black and orange as the menacing fire continued to swell. There was no time to rest.

“
Komm
, Priscilla!”

Jumping up, Sarah ran to safety—a sobbing, terrified Priscilla on her heels.

“Stay here. I’m going to help Dat!”

Sarah was vaguely aware of Suzie and Mervin huddled together on the porch of the farmhouse, their faces white in the glow of the fire. Red fire trucks were screaming their way toward the barn, silver flashing on the wheels and sides of the huge vehicles. As the men in fire gear jumped down and wielded hoses, Sarah knew her help was now completely useless.

She turned to go back but felt Mam beside her and reached out a hand as Mam’s arm slid about her waist. The cries of the tortured animals pushed Sarah’s hands to her ears, where she clamped them as though her life depended on ridding herself of the terrible sounds.

“It’s awful, I know. Oh, it’s terrible,” Mam kept repeating, over and over, as if her banal speech could fix it all.

Sarah was glad when Mam went to the porch to comfort Mervin and Suzie. Dropping down beside Priscilla, she pulled the younger girl against her lap. Pricilla lowered her head and shuddered from the force of her sobs.

They both cried out in high-pitched despair when the diesel fuel tank exploded, sending rockets of flames roaring high into the night sky, increasing the heat and velocity of the fire. That was when the animals’ cries ended, each creature mercilessly engulfed and burned to death.

Sarah lifted her face to the night sky and found friendly white stars shimmering in the heavens, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. She wondered if God cared that their barn had turned into a raging inferno and trapped the innocent animals in its fiery maw.

Cars arrived, some with blue lights flashing on their roofs. Neighbors—Amish and English—appeared in the line that separated the light from the dark. They were like creatures emerging from a strange other world, their faces grim, their straw hats and camouflage caps all pulled down as if to shield their minds from the horror of it.

Sarah watched the line of men, most in black wearing wide hats, a silhouette of sameness and brotherly love. As neighbors, they stood by Dat, not saying much, their silence a better comfort than words. Words would be about as useless as their blazing barn, Sarah reasoned, so that was how the men likely viewed the situation.

Great streams of water continued to shoot from the expertly controlled hoses. The trained firemen on duty went about their business saving what they could, which Sarah knew wasn’t much. The flames hissed where the water rained down on them, sending up plumes of white steam that were immediately swallowed up by rolling billows of black smoke. And still sirens wailed as more fire trucks rumbled to the scene.

The flames crackled, hissed, and steamed. The fire engines idled, and pumps roared to life as firemen swarmed about. The police arrived wearing dark uniforms with pistols and gold braids and an air of authority. Dat looked old and a bit humpbacked, his homemade Amish clothes drab and ill-fitting, his beard wagging as he told the officers what he knew. Sarah guessed it probably wasn’t much.

The night burned into a weariness after that. As Priscilla continued crying, everyone crowded around Dat, the darkness taking back some of the light as the water quenched a fraction of the flames.

Looking down at her sister, Sarah bent her head and whispered, “Hush, hush.”

Priscilla nodded, rubbed a forearm across her face, and said, “Let’s go in.”

Together they walked across the yard and up to the porch, where Sarah thought she heard a soft sound, a calling, but she couldn’t be sure. Opening the door, she heard Levi crying out for assistance. Mam had already heard him and, after putting the smaller children back to bed, was a step ahead of Sarah.

“I can’t find my flashlight!” Levi said indignantly.

“It’s under your pillow, Levi. You don’t need it. The house is bright from the fire,” Mam assured him.

The loss of his flashlight, coupled with his fever and pain and the terror of the fire, was the small frustration that threatened to send him into one of his seizures. They were frightening to watch, the way his eyes rolled back in his head and his body became rigid, his head jerking and flopping. It was then that he could slide out of bed and fall on the floor with a terrible crash. They always worried about a broken hip or shoulder.

“I want my flashlight!” Levi bellowed.

Sarah quickly thrust a hand deep under his pillow and sighed with relief when an object hit the floor on the other side. She retrieved it, handed it over, and Levi grasped it greedily to his chest. He immediately quieted himself, the object a solace to him and his safety.

He sat, a large lump of a man, his hair disheveled, his beard uncombed, his eyes watering with the fever. Morose but calmed, he watched the barn burn.

Sarah found Levi’s glasses, washed them in hot running water, and dried them with a clean paper towel. She brought them back and placed them on his face gently so he wouldn’t get upset.

“You know
an dumba monn
drove his car in here.” He said it flatly, without expression, his voice gravelly with the infection in his throat.

Mam looked at Sarah and raised her eyebrows.

“You were dreaming.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t. I had to get up and take some pills. A car. It was white. He had all the lights off.”

“Get the police,” Mam whispered. She stroked Levi’s shoulder and massaged his back while Sarah hesitated.

“I don’t want to go out there—all those men.”

“You have to. Priscilla won’t. I think they need to hear what Levi has to say.”

Obediently Sarah went, slowly calculating which group of men looked the most approachable. Good. There was Dat. Walking on, she tapped his arm and said, “Dat,” very quietly. He didn’t hear her, so she tugged at his sleeve.

He turned, smiled, and said, “Sarah.”

“Dat, Levi—Mam thinks the police should talk to Levi.”

“Why?”

“He said there was a white car in here. Without lights.”

Immediately Dat left in search of the officers. Sarah went back inside, away from the hissing and crackling, the mud and blackness, and the stench of rolling smoke.

The propane lamp sent the orange glow of the fire away, its yellowish white light restoring a sense of normalcy to the farm kitchen. Levi shuffled gratefully into its warm circle and settled into the well-used brown rocking recliner with the cotton throw across its back. He looked up with fear and respect when the officers walked through the door.

He told them he was Levi Beiler and politely and quite solemnly shook hands with the officers, peering up at them through his thick lenses. As they introduced themselves, Sarah stood nearby knowing that Levi would never forget their names.

Chapter 2

A
S THE FIRE CONTINUED
to rage, the streams of water that spurted from the long, snaking hoses turned the barnyard and the macadamed driveway into a brown sluice of debris and charcoal-laden liquid. Firemen in professional gear, their training now being put to use, aimed the nozzles for the greatest efficiency as the night wore on.

Inside the house, Levi gazed in wonder at the stern figures before him—Jake Mason and Brian O’Connell. Awed by the sheer splendor of their uniforms, he filed the men’s names away in his sharp, efficient memory.

“How are you, Levi?” asked Jake, the older one, his hair graying at the sides, his stomach snuggly filling the heavy black shirt like a large sausage.

Levi watched the officer’s stomach, noticing the absence of wrinkles in his shirt.

“Good. I have a sore neck, though.”

He looked questioningly at Sarah for reassurance, knowing the English language remained elusive for him.

Sarah stood by Levi, put a hand on his pajama-clad shoulder, and bent to whisper, “Throat.”

Squinting, looking at them, he pointed to his throat.

“Sorry to hear it. Now tell me what you saw.”

Levi knew he was important and had an audience, so he played it for all it was worth.

“I need a drink,” he said, waving his hand, a kingly motion that sent Sarah to his nightstand. Mam cast a knowing smile in Dat’s direction.

He drank from the straw, grimacing mightily, rubbed his hands, pursed his lips, and said, “A white car drove past the house with no lights on it.”

Giving no sign of acknowledgment, the officer scribbled on a pad and resumed questioning Levi.

Yes, he’d been awake.

No, he hadn’t seen the car here before.

The only person he knew with a white car was Fred Dunkirk, the guy who sold Watkins products, and he hadn’t been here since September twenty-third.

The officers shook Levi’s hand, thanked him, and turned to Dat, leaving Levi with a beatific grin and stars in his eyes—to think he’d shaken the hands of real policemen.

“You have no reason to believe this was an act of revenge, someone acting out against you? No past grudge, perhaps?” Jake asked.

Dat shook his head, bewildered.

Sarah watched his expression with love for her father flooding her heart. He was an ordained minister, carrying the burden of being a servant of the Lord, striving to keep peace and unity among his people—the small district of twenty-some families—protecting his flock from “the wolf,” the ways of the world.

Yes, of course, he had not always said or done the right thing. But so far as he knew, he had no reason to believe anyone would take such hateful revenge, allowing innocent animals to meet horrible deaths like that.

In Sarah’s eyes, at the tender age of nineteen, her father was a wise and godly man, temperate, slow to speak, and above all, kind and gentle. There was pain in her large gray-green eyes when she met Dat’s, also the color of restless seawater, a distinct feature handed down from Grandfather Beiler.

“I certainly have no reason to believe someone would do this against me,” he said quietly.

The policemen nodded.

Dat lowered his head and thought of Jonas Esh’s Reuben, who’d been excommunicated for a time—for sins he had brought on himself by his own rebellion. But Reuben did not have the ability, the meanness of heart, to react in such a way. He believed in Reuben, knowing the Esh boys all went through their rebellious phases because of questionable parenting. But when treated with patience and kindness, they all came around to see the folly of it.

What had his father said? You can accomplish more with honey than vinegar.

So when he lifted his head to meet the eyes of the policemen, these thoughts had brought a softness, a peace, to his own.

“No,” he said firmly. “No.”

As one officer nodded, the other’s hand went to his belt as a device chirped and crackled.

Sarah was startled and restrained a giggle, thinking how closely the sound resembled the chirp of a blue jay at the feeder. She mentally formed a picture of a large, aggressive bird attached to the policeman’s glossy black belt.

For the remainder of the night, the family huddled on sofas and recliners, covered with various afghans and cotton throws. Levi was taken back to bed after the policemen left. There he mumbled and coughed, the light of the dying barn fire playing across his features.

Mam stood at the sink staring out the window at the horrible reality of the loss. The acceptance drew her shoulders forward in a hunch of despair, her hands clenching the Formica top as if she could fix everything as long as she stayed erect, watching.

Sarah sat by Levi’s bed, where the windows were low. Her knees were drawn up, her hands clasping them, her head resting against the cushion of Levi’s blue La-Z-Boy. She watched the silhouettes of Amish men and English ones, of firemen and fire trucks, the smoke and the steam and the mess. Wondering how they would ever recover from this completely insurmountable financial loss made her sick to her heart.